


A Dying Art

by Lokisgame



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2018-12-23 12:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11989650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokisgame/pseuds/Lokisgame
Summary: The one thing that remained was guilt, that he dragged Scully out here, making her postpone her leave.





	1. Chapter 1

The sky was dark gray with heavy rain clouds that gathered throughout the day. The air stood still festering in humid heat, making the shirts stick to their backs under mandatory suit jackets. Frustration growing from hitting one dead end after another fueled their foul moods, curt replies, and heavy silences.  
When the wind picked up speed and tugged at the ratty curtains over his open motel room window, Mulder went out and sat on the curb, bag of seeds in his hand. The air carried a faint scent of distant rain, warm breeze dried off his dampened mood and blew away the annoyance of having all doors slammed shut in his face. The one thing that remained was guilt, that he dragged Scully out here, making her postpone her leave.  
Tomorrow morning they would head back to DC, and part ways for the longest time since Duane Barry.  
Three weeks alone, knowing she's not home, knowing that 9am sharp she won't walk through the door. Three weeks without her to argue with and poke holes in his theories. Spending the day trying to focus on work just to go home to stare at the phone and wonder if she’ll call.  
Years ago he'd think it’s three weeks of freedom, but now it felt like punishment. When did it happen? When did he realize he couldn't do this without her?  
First drops of rain stained the pavement, the scent of ozone filled the air after a bright flash of light, like a photograph of the moment when let himself feel without thinking he should grow up.

Maybe she'll call once or twice or send a card, some pretty picture of Florida or California with a few warm words jotted down in haste between the beach and the SPA. Sometimes Mulder wished the art of writing letters didn't die. He wished for the thrill of checking the mailbox and finding an envelope waiting inside. Heavy or light, smelling faintly of suntan lotion or sprinkled with sand, with a crushed seashell (he'd keep) inside. A tangible proof of their bond intact. 

_Dear Mulder_  
_It's a beautiful day..._

One page, three pages? Her writing clean and elegant. Would she write sitting by the pool, hidden from the sun by an umbrella the size of Texas? Or in her room, feeling the cool silk sheets like a balm. Maybe she’d lay on her front on a towel surrounded by sand, hair dripping wet from a swim in the ocean, rushing to record the thought that hit her, whilst communing with spirits of the deep cold waters, their message written in a drop that smudged the ink and wrinkled the corners. He wanted to think that and forget the diary he found on her night stand a year ago, filled with prophecies of loneliness.

 _...wish you were here._  
_Love, Scully._

Would she lick the envelope? Would she think it a kiss? Would she spend twenty minutes debating whether to write the three word post scriptum, like he undoubtedly will? 

_Dear Scully_  
_The cafeteria is out of coffee..._

His letter would, most likely, be shorter, messy, full of disjointed paragraphs, as if he wrote down all thoughts she couldn't hear him speak throughout the day at the office. I'm bored, Skinner looks bored, even his secretary looks like she misses you. How's your mother? The office is awfully quiet without you. I wrote four reports since Monday, I can do things without you, but I don't want to, not really, not for too long, when are you coming back? The maintenance returned the VCR, didn't bother to fix it, we got a new one. Langly says hi, Frohike wants to know what are you wearing, tell me and I won't tell him, I promise. Went to the movies last night, no, it wasn't that kind of movie. And really, cafeteria is out of coffee, it's probably one of darkest days in the history of FBI. I don't want to write about work, I want to be there with you, on the beach and talk your ear off...  
Then he'd crumple the page and start again, censoring the needy parts, editing the ramblings into something coherent, throwing a bad joke here and there, for fun.

 _...One last thing, have you seen my car keys? Just kidding._  
_Yours truly, Mulder_

His hand would hesitate over the last words. To write or not to write, that is the question. 

_P.S._  
_I miss you._

He’d lick the glue, and fast, sealing the words before he'd change his mind. The very thought of telling her that, made his heart race, although she was here, in the next room, taking a shower. 

The rain grew heavy and thunder rumbled overhead. The edge of storm that barely touched them, now crawled over the motel and the woods that surrounded it. The air smelled of damp earth and pine and solitude of secluded hermit cabins.  
The door opened. A warm hand touched his shoulder, as Scully lowered herself to the ground beside him, hair damp and feet bare. She turned her face to the sky and breathed deeply.  
"I've waited whole day for this," she said, calm and relaxed, and Mulder tried to convince himself she meant the rain, not the end of the day and their imminent parting.  
"I hope you'll have better weather on your holiday," he played along ignoring his fear. _Irrational, stupid, get a grip._  
"It's California, sun is practically a given," she smiled bumping his shoulder with hers, as if the morning’s weight had completely lifted from her heart. If she had fears of her own, she hid them well.  
"Right," he chuckled, feeling more like an idiot.  
The rain pelted down on the parking lot, trees surrendering to the wind, knowing there was no way to fight and win. They stayed silent, watching the lime green pollen gather on the shore of each puddle, like sea foam on a beach. Scully leaned on him and rested her head on his shoulder in a rare display of affection. God, he will miss her.  
“Will you do me a favor?” She said quietly.  
“What do you need?”  
“Will you take me to the airport on Sunday?” Her hands rested in her lap, probably warm and steady.  
“Sure, the rates at the long term parking lots are atrocious.”  
“Exactly.” _Come with me,_ she thought, _we’ll ditch my family and go look for mermaids or something, pretend it’s an x-file. I don’t want to see Tara pregnant again in the house where I lost the closest, little thing, I’ll ever have to a child._  
The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably so, as long as their shoulders touch when the shadows grew long.  
“Is pizza alright?” He asked, as the pavement beneath them turned cold and the sun went down.  
“I could get dressed and we could go out, what do you say?”  
“I'd say, the drinks are on me, c’mon.”  
“Give me ten.”  
“You have five.”

Under the glaring lights of the terminal, he slipped her carry-on bag of his shoulder, feeling his heart follow it to the ground.  
“You’ve got everything?” Mulder asked, unsure what to do with his hands. The speaker announced her flight boarding at gate 7. That was it, three weeks without her, begin the countdown.  
With half a smile and a quick glance around, Scully took a step forward and, standing on tiptoes, put her arms around him, hugging him tightly. He didn’t think, he just hugged her back, a gesture as old as mankind. It wasn’t a farewell, just a simple goodbye.  
“Write to me," he whispered letting go, making her giggle at his old-fashioned notion.  
She picked up her bag and looked up at him, eyes shining bright.  
“I will,” she promised, and he believed her somehow. 

Mulder waited for her to glance back one last time, to send her a smile and a mouthed goodbye, before she finally disappeared into the crowd.  
Three days later he got her first letter.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Mulder_

_There is a distinct shade to California sunshine, be it the ocean and the seaside air of the idea of this being the end of the road for so many dreamers. I’m staying in a very respectful-looking hotel, the room is clean, pool looks gorgeous from my 11th floor room with air-conditioning and 24 hour room service. But it’s not where I am right now, because the sun is setting and the evening is warm. I’m at a bar, sipping gin and tonic while digging my toes into the sand. I couldn’t resist the waves and went for a little swim as well. Water was heavenly, can’t wait for more in the next few days..._

 

His eyes returned to the honorific. The paper already worn, folded and unfolded, their only connection, since they agreed not to call, sitting in his pocket for a week or so, even before he got sent to this assignment. Before a procession of victims paraded under his eyelids. Gory details encoded in pictures, reports and eyewitness statements. It made him sick to his stomach, it made sleep impossible. Locals were terrified, police spread their hands, did all they could and anything he told them to do. He was the big guy and they looked up to him, to save the day, for 5 days now.  
Mulder unfolded the letter and read the first paragraph again, painting a picture in his head with ink smeared by water, dripping from her hair. Small toes, painted red, sinking in sand, her warm shoulder against his, ice clinking against glass.  
He slept for an hour before the nightmares began.

 

_Dear Mulder_

_It’s a rare, rainy day in California, The Land Of Eternal Sunshine. Yet it’s still warm, the ocean in the distance looks beautiful, so much space. If I focus on the horizon, I can almost feel like there’s no room around me, I wonder if seagulls feel the same, flying out to the sea._  
_I found the most amazing seafood place, pure chance. It’s a bit of a walk from the hotel, but worth it. Oysters so fresh, they don’t even know what happened yet, crab sandwiches and shrimps! I swear, some poor mermaid is crying right now, having lost her pet, the thing is huge! Poor Shrimpy, I can't eat him. I wish I could send you some, though. Sorry about the stains, but I had to share..._

 

Staring at his fourth cup of stale coffee, hiding the letter between papers, he tried to swallow the greasy, tasteless burger, dreaming of a shrimp salad, or at least, a pickle to save the day.  
Eating was hard when stress and adrenaline kicked in. He basically forgot about it living on stale coffee and half-eaten doughnuts. Scully would kick his ass if she was there, then feed him takeout, pushing the reports away.  
Day 6 and his head suddenly started swimming, hands shaking, cold sweat stuck the shirt to his back. He caught a passing uniform, one he saw bring in the food a few times. The man pointed at the break room, Mulder forced a smile, feeling his knees start to turn into rubber. He found the last one under a heap of napkins, cold, paper wrapping stained with ketchup. He found the letter in the inside pocket of his rumpled jacket and read it again while eating, imagining her mouth stained with sauce, sharing a meal with him. 

 

_Dear Mulder_

_I’ll probably see you, before this reaches DC, but I’m sending it anyway. I know it’s silly, because I’ve basically covered my entire trip, and there won’t be enough to talk about, when we see each other again, but there’s something I need you to know, and I’m not sure I will have the courage to say it in person. I’m at a bar, overlooking the city and I admit, those are traces of red wine, but the place is so beautiful, gold and red lights, homes and cars, ocean of black in the distance, transitioning smoothly into a canopy of stars. I wish you could share this view with me. I wish you were here.  
_See you soon._ _

__

__

__

_Love,_  
_Scully_

 

He kicked the doors closed and leaned on them, dropping the bag to the floor, reading her words time and time again.  
Case closed, finally home, he cleared his mailbox and, between bills and junk mail, found one letter addressed in her doctor’s handwriting, ripping the envelope open on the elevator to read it. It wasn’t a postcard, it was a polaroid, Scully’s tanned and freckled face, smiling in the warm glow of California sunset, sand and waves behind her.  
He glanced at the envelope, stamp said it was mailed two days ago, then at his watch, It was late, but not too late to call her. Lost in thought, a knock on the door made him jump.  
Mulder pulled the doors open and then her, straight into his arms.  
“Can I come in?” She whispered, feeling him chuckle, as she put her arms around him. Mulder hid in the crook of her neck.  
“In a minute,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and breathing in the sun-warmed scent of her skin.  
“Take all the time you need.” Accepting his weight, she relaxed into his arms and they held on to each other.  
“Are you okay?” She asked after a while, once his arms loosened and drew back.  
“Not by a long shot,” he sighed, but the smiles came easier now. He shut the door and flicked the lights on.  
Alarmed at once, her hand cupped his cheek, three day stubble whispering against soft skin. Eyes bruised by insomnia, fell shut. “What happened?”  
Mulder leaned into her touch and sighed, avoiding answer. “Will you promise me something?”  
“What?” Her free hand was on him as well, gently checking for injury, as usual. Finding nothing, she relaxed.  
“Next time, you go on a holiday,” their eyes met again, soft but tired, pleading, “take me with you. Promise?”  
Scully smiled, stroking his cheek with one thumb. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Over the past month, I wrote more than 20 stories. None of that would happen, if it wasn't for your support, Dear Reader so THANK YOU FOR READING, KUDOS AND COMMENTS. You mean the world to me.


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